


eyes wide open

by renecdote



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I say references, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Minor Character Death, Steve Needs a Hug, it's more like vague allusions to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23422498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: It’s funny—stupid, really—that the little details, the inconsequential details, the ones that really didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, those are the ones that stick with him.Steve has a nightmare. Danny helps.
Relationships: Steve McGarrett & Danny "Danno" Williams
Comments: 10
Kudos: 91





	eyes wide open

**Author's Note:**

> Idek this is not the fic I started writing but somehow it's the one that happened. Seriously this started out as a half-formed idea about Steve as a sniper and then became not that at all. The words have a mind of their own ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. 
> 
> Set at no point in particular so no spoilers for anything. Just pick one of the (many) times Danny has stayed at Steve's place and that will do.

He’s lying in the sand, only half sheltered by a scraggly, dying tree. Summer. Afghanistan. 2003. He imagines he can feel the tight pain of each individual skin cell on the back of his neck burning under the hot sun. It’s been five hours and still no sight of the target. 

(He isn’t going to show up, but Steve didn’t know that then. They were working off bad intel, the kind so bad you had to wonder whether it was a trap.)

His elbows ache and his wrists cramp. The right one in particular sends sharp bolts of pain down his arm. He’d lied to the base doctor to get cleared for this op and he knows that Joe is going to tear him a new one when he finds out.

(Joe never did find out though. When it was over, a sore wrist was the least of Steve’s problems.)

“ _McGarrett_.” A whisper in his ear. “ _Convey approaching, six klicks out from your position._ “

Steve blinks grit out of his eyes. They’re so dry his eyelashes hurt. “Visual confirmation on the target?”

A moment that feels like years. “ _Negative_.”

(Steve is going to make a call in a few minutes. Their window on the convey is going to be closing and the voices in his ear are going to be demanding orders; he’s not going to have a choice.

He’s going to make the wrong the call.)

A lizard climbs over his leg. Steve doesn’t twitch. He watches through his scope as the convey snakes its way out from around a hill and into their ambush zone. Somewhere further down the hillside, Hutchins and Martinez are watching and waiting as well.

“Lawrence?” 

Two beats of silence. “ _Still negative._ “

Steve’s grip on his rifle tightens, adrenaline flooding through him, washing away the cramps and the burn of the glaring sun. He breathes and it feels like the desert breathes with him.

“ _Thirty seconds until we lose visual._ “

(He put in his report later that he analysed all the risks. He still can’t remember whether he did.)

“ _Fifteen seconds._ “

His breath ghosts over cracked lips. He licks them and tastes sand. Through the scope of his rifle he can see the moustache on the driver of the first truck. He’s talking to the man beside him, only one hand on the wheel. Steve sees his lips form the word _daughter_.

(He knows what happens next, but fuck, he can’t stop it, he can’t—)

“ _Lieutenant?_ “

“Engage,” he says and the kick of his rifle is half a beat behind the rapport echoing in his ears. He only gets off one shot before the truck at the front of the convoy explodes.

*****

(They told him later that he was lucky to be alive.)

(He didn’t feel very lucky.)

*****

Steve wakes up choking on the smell of copper and burning fuel, the taste of sand in his mouth. His legs tangle in the sheets and he hits the floor on his hands and knees, half crawling until he can get his feet under him, stumbling into the bathroom just to land on his knees again and lose last night’s dinner to the toilet. The image of that driver’s face is burned into his mind. He’s done a lot of horrible things, killed a lot of people, but that one always sticks and he doesn’t know why.

There are things that didn’t make it into the report about that day. Things like the smell of burnt flesh, Hutchins’ whimpering screams—details the Navy didn’t care about but Steve couldn’t forget. The shockwave of the explosion had bowled over him, shrapnel raining down, the wind just right to blow all the smoke back on his position. He’d broken cover, scrambled down the hillside to the last place he’d seen his men, shouting for a report even though he couldn’t hear the answer over the ringing in his ears.

Hutchins hadn’t been dead when Steve got to him. Not yet. There had been enough strength in his fingers to scrabble at Steve’s vest, dig into the aching muscles of Steve’s wrist so tight his nails left marks as he choked on pain and blood. The kid was only twenty-four. Steve can’t remember what he told him, what useless bullshit about everything being okay he spouted, but it hardly mattered. The second explosion was as much of a surprise as the first. Steve had flattened himself over Hutchins on instinct, face pressed into the ground, the taste of sand and scent of burning flesh the last thing he remembers.

Steve gags again, but there’s nothing left in his stomach. 

“Steve?”

He flinches and the hand that was about to touch his shoulder snaps back. There’s the sound of retreating footsteps and Steve doesn’t know whether to feel guilty or relieved. He flushes the toilet but he doesn’t get up, just presses himself back against the tiled wall, knees to his chest and head tipped back. He’s shivering. Or shaking. It’s hard to tell.

“Here.” A water bottle is held in front of him, wiggling a bit when Steve doesn’t immediately take it. “Drink.”

He takes a sip of water, holds it in his mouth for a moment and has to swallow hard so he doesn’t spit it out when all he tastes is sand. He almost throws up again, fights it down with every last shred of control he has.

Danny watches him, something guarded in his expression.

“Nightmare?” he asks.

Steve shakes his head. God, he wishes it was just a nightmare. He doesn’t know how to tell Danny that his memories are always worse.

“Okay,” Danny says. It’s gentle, like he doesn’t believe him. “Can I touch you?”

Steve shakes his head again. The rest of him is cold but his neck feels achingly hot and he puts a hand there, sure for a moment that he’s going to feel the dry sting of a bad sunburn. Instead there is just the damp curl of his hair sticking to his skin from sweat.

Danny hesitates, uncharacteristic in his silence.

“I’m fine,” Steve says roughly. He has to say something. ”You can go back to bed, Danny.”

“Right,” Danny says, but he doesn’t go back to bed. He runs water in the sink instead, wets a washcloth and holds it dripping over Steve’s head until he reaches up and takes it, wiping at his face and his neck before letting it sag to the ground. He feels exhausted, suddenly, even though somewhere below the weight in his chest, his heart is still beating faster than it should be. No matter how much his body wants to crawl back into bed and sleep for a month, he doesn’t think his mind is going to let him get any more rest tonight. 

“Did you hurt your wrist?”

Steve frowns, opening eyes he hadn’t even realised he’d closed. “What?"

“Your wrist,” Danny repeats, gesturing toward Steve’s arm. “You’re holding it like it hurts.”

Steve looks down and finds that he is. His right wrist is cradled against his chest, left knee pressed up under it like some kind of makeshift support. He quickly presses both hands to his thighs instead. “My wrist is fine,” he says, not quite meeting Danny’s eyes.

It’s funny—stupid, really—that the little details, the inconsequential details, the ones that really didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, those are the ones that stick with him. He’d been sent to one of the shrinks on base after it happened, bullshitted his way through questions about nightmares and flashbacks to a clean bill of health. It wasn’t lying, not really, she just didn’t ask the right questions. 

Danny looks like he wants to ask those questions. 

Steve pushes himself to his feet before he can, forcing Danny backwards out of the bathroom as he moves toward the sink. He washes his hands, rinses his mouth, hesitates a moment before picking up his toothbrush. He’s expecting the taste of sand, grit where there shouldn’t be grit, and almost sags in relief when the only thing that floods his mouth is minty cold. 

“Are you actually going to go back to sleep?” Danny asks as Steve shuffles past him.

Steve sits on the edge of the mattress, feeling worn out and shaky, heart still thudding. “I don’t know,” he admits, surprised by how easy it is to say. 

Danny sits beside him, shoulder warm and solid where it presses against Steve’s. “Want me to stay?” he asks quietly. Steve gets a sudden mental image of Danny sitting beside Grace or Charlie saying those exact same words. It’s followed swiftly by the image of that convoy driver, the word daughter on his lips.

“No,” Steve says. Makes himself say. “You’ve got court in the morning, you should go back to bed.”

“Yeah, okay,” Danny agrees. But he doesn’t move and Steve doesn’t try to tell him to leave again. 

He does manage to go back to sleep eventually. The nightmare doesn’t come back, and maybe that has something to do with the fact that Danny is sprawled out on the bed beside him, or maybe it doesn’t. Steve wakes up to a splitting headache and bright sunlight shining through the curtains and finds that Danny’s fingers have wrapped themselves around his wrist. He stares down at their hands, waiting for the memory of Hutchins’ nails on his skin and the terrified look in the kid’s eyes to rise up and swallow him, but it doesn’t come. 

The slant of the sun tells him that it’s still early. Steve is usually getting up around now, going out to run or swim. This morning he rolls over and finds the pulse point on Danny’s wrist and goes back to sleep instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated, or you can find me on tumblr [here](https://renecdote.tumblr.com/).


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